My dad’s name was Clevie Raymond Carver. His family called him Raymond and friends called him CR. I was named Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr. I hated the ‘Junior’ part. When I was little my dad called me ‘Frog’, which was OK. But later, like everybody else in the family, he began calling me ‘Junior’. He went on calling me this until I was thirteen or fourteen and announced that I wouldn’t answer to that name any longer. So he began calling me ‘Doc’. From then until his death on 17 June 1967, he called me ‘Doc’ or else ‘Son’.
When he died, my mother telephoned my wife with the news. I was away from my family at the time, between lives, trying to enrol in the School of Library Science at the University of Iowa. When my wife answered the phone, my mother blurted out, ‘Raymond’s dead!’ For a moment, my wife thought my mother was telling her that I was dead. Then my mother made it clear which Raymond she was talking about and my wife said, ‘Thank God. I thought you meant my Raymond.’
My dad walked, hitched rides, and rode in empty box cars when he went from Arkansas to Washington State in 1934, looking for work. I don’t know whether or not he was pursuing a dream when he went out to Washington. I doubt it. I don’t think he dreamed much. I believe he was simply looking for steady work at decent pay. Steady work was meaningful work. He picked apples for a time and then landed a construction labourer’s job on the Grand Coulee Dam. After he’d put aside a little money, he bought a car and drove back to Arkansas to help his folks, my grandparents, pack up for the move west. He said later that they were about to starve down there; and this wasn’t meant as a figure of speech. It was during that short while in Arkansas, in a town called Leola, that my mother met my dad on the sidewalk as he came out of a tavern.
‘He was drunk,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I let him talk to me. His eyes were glittery. I wish I’d had a crystal ball.’ They’d met once, a year or so before, at a dance. He’d had girlfriends before her, my mother told me. ‘Your dad always had a girlfriend, even after we married. He was my first and last. I never had another man. But I didn’t miss anything.’
They were married by a Justice of the Peace on the day they left for Washington, this big tall country girl and an ex-farm hand turned construction worker. My mother spent her wedding night with my dad and his folks, all of them camped beside the road in Arkansas.
In Omak, Washington, my dad and mother lived in a little place not much bigger than a cabin. My grandparents lived next door. My dad was still working on the dam and later, with the huge turbines producing electricity and the water backed up for a hundred miles into Canada, he stood in the crowd and heard Franklin D. Roosevelt dedicate the dam. ‘He never mentioned those guys who died building that dam,’ my dad said. Some of his friends had died there, men from Arkansas, Oklahoma and Missouri.
He then took a job in a sawmill in Clatskanie, Oregon, a little town alongside the Columbia river. I was born there, and my mother has a picture of my dad standing in front of the gate to the mill, proudly holding me up to face the camera. My bonnet is on crooked and about to come untied. His hat is pushed back on his forehead, and he’s wearing a big grin. Was he going in to work, or just finishing his shift? It doesn’t matter. In either case, he had a job and a family. These were his salad days.
In 1941 we moved to Yakima, Washington, where my dad went to work as a saw-filer, a skilled trade he’d learned at the mill in Clatskanie. When war broke out, he was given a deferment because his work was considered necessary to the war effort. Finished lumber was in demand by the armed services, and he kept his saws so sharp they could shave the hair off your arm.
After my dad had moved us to Yakima, he moved his folks into the same neighbourhood. By the mid-1940s, the rest of my dad’s family – his brother, his sister and her husband, as well as uncles, cousins, nephews and most of their extended family and friends – had come out from Arkansas. All because my dad came out first. The men went to work at Boise Cascade, where my dad worked, and the women packed apples in the canneries. And in just a little while, it seemed – according to my mother – everybody was better off than my dad.
‘Your dad couldn’t keep money,’ my mother said. ‘Money burned a hole in his pocket. He was always doing for others.’
The first house I clearly remember living in, at 1515 South 15th Street, in Yakima, had an outdoor toilet. On Halloween night, or just any night, for the hell of it, neighbouring kids, kids in their early teens, would carry our toilet away and leave it next to the road. My dad would have to get somebody to help him bring it home. Or these kids would take the toilet and stand it in somebody else’s back yard. Once they actually set it on fire. But ours wasn’t the only house that had an outdoor toilet. When I was old enough to know what I was doing, I threw rocks at the other toilets when I’d see someone go inside. This was called bombing the toilets. After a while, though, everyone changed to indoor plumbing until, suddenly, our toilet was the last one in the neighbourhood. I remember the shame I felt when my third-grade teacher, Mr Wise, drove me home from school one day. I asked him to stop at the house just before ours, claiming I lived there.
I had one bad spanking from my dad when I was little. He took off his belt and laid it on me when he caught me walking down a railroad trestle. As he was whipping me, he said, ‘This hurts me worse than it does you.’ Even at the time, as small and dumb as I was, I knew this wasn’t true. It had the sound of something his father might have said to him under the same circumstances.
I can recall what happened one night when my dad came home late to find that my mother had locked all the doors on him. He was drunk, and we could feel the house shudder as he rattled the door. When he’d managed to force open a window, she hit him between the eyes with a colander and knocked him out. We could see him down there on the grass. For years afterwards, I used to pick up this colander – it was as heavy as a rolling pin – and imagine what it would feel like to be hit in the face with something like that.
It was during this period that I remember my dad taking me into the bedroom, sitting me down on the bed, and telling me that I might have to go live with my Aunt La Von for a while. I couldn’t understand what I’d done that meant I’d have to go away from home to live. But this, too – whatever prompted it – must have blown over, more or less anyway, because we stayed together, and I didn’t have to go live with her or anyone else.
For a time in the late forties we didn’t have a car. We had to walk everywhere we wanted to go, or else take the bus that stopped near where they used to carry our toilet. I don’t know why we didn’t have a car, some sort of car, but we didn’t. Still, it was all right with me that we didn’t. I didn’t miss it. I mean, we didn’t have a car and that’s all there was to it. Back then I didn’t miss what I didn’t have. ‘We couldn’t afford a car,’ my mother said, when I asked her. ‘It was your dad. He drank it up.’
If we wanted to fish, my dad and I would walk to some ponds that were only a couple of miles away, or to the Yakima river, only a little farther away than the ponds. With or without a car, we went fishing nearly every weekend. But once in a while my dad wouldn’t want to get out of bed. ‘He feels bad,’ my mother would say. ‘No wonder. You better leave him alone.’
I remember her pouring his whisky down the sink. Sometimes she’d pour it all out and sometimes, if she was afraid of getting caught, she’d only pour half of it out and then add water to the rest. I tasted some of his whisky once for myself. It was terrible stuff, and I didn’t see how anybody could drink it.
When we finally did get a car, in 1949 or 1950, it was a 1938 Ford. But it threw a rod the first week we had it, and my dad had to have the motor rebuilt.
‘We drove the oldest car in town,’ my mother said. ‘We could have had a Cadillac for all he spent on car repairs.’ One time she found someone else’s lipstick on the floorboards, along with a lacy handkerchief. ‘See this?’ she said to me. ‘Some floozie left this in the car.’
Once I saw her take a pan of warm water into the bedroom where my dad was sleeping. She took his hand from under the covers and held it in the water. I stood in the doorway and watched. I wanted to know what was going on. This would make him talk in his sleep, she told me. There were things she needed to know, things she was sure he was keeping from her.
Every year or so, when I was little, we would take the North Coast Limited across the Cascade Mountains from Yakima to Seattle and stay in the Vance Hotel and eat, I remember, at a place called The Dinner Bell Café. Once we went to Ivar’s Acres of Clams and drank glasses of warm clam broth.
Both my grandparents died in 1955. In 1956, the year I was to graduate from high school, my dad quit his job at the mill in Yakima and took a job in Chester, a little sawmill town in northern California. The reasons given at the time for his taking the job had to do with a higher hourly wage and the vague promise that he might, in a few years’ time, succeed to the job of head filer in this new mill. But I think, in the main, that my dad had grown restless and simply wanted to try his luck elsewhere. Things had gotten a little too predictable for him in Yakima. Also, there were the deaths, within six months of each other, of my grandparents.
But just a few days after my graduation, when my mother and I were packed to move to Chester, my dad pencilled a letter to say he’d been sick for a while. He didn’t want us to worry, he said, but he’d cut himself on a saw. Maybe he’d got a tiny sliver of steel in his blood. Anyway, something had happened and he’d had to miss work, he said. In the same mail was an unsigned postcard from somebody down there telling my mother that my dad was about to die and that he was drinking ‘raw whisky’.
When we arrived in Chester my dad was living in a trailer that belonged to the company. I didn’t recognize him immediately. I guess for a moment I didn’t want to recognize him. He was skinny and pale and looked bewildered. His pants wouldn’t stay up. He didn’t look like my dad. My mother began to cry. My dad put his arm around her and patted her shoulder vaguely like he didn’t know what this was all about, either. The three of us took up life together in the trailer, and we looked after him as best we could. But my dad was sick, and he couldn’t get any better. I worked with him in the mill that summer and part of the fall. We’d get up in the mornings and eat eggs and toast while we listened to the radio, and then go out the door with our lunch pails. We’d pass through the gates together at eight in the morning, and I wouldn’t see him again until quitting time. In November I went back to Yakima to be closer to my girlfriend, the girl I’d made up my mind I was going to marry.
He worked at the mill in Chester until the following February, when he collapsed on the job and was taken to hospital. My mother asked me to come down there and help. I caught a bus from Yakima to Chester, intending to drive them back to Yakima. But now, in addition to being physically sick, my dad was in the midst of a nervous breakdown, though none of us knew to call it that at the time. During the entire trip back to Yakima, he didn’t speak, not even when asked a direct question. (‘How do you feel, Raymond?’ ‘You okay, Dad?’) He’d communicate, if he communicated at all, by moving his head or else turning his palms up as if to say he didn’t know or care. The only time he said anything on the trip, and for nearly a month afterwards, was when I was speeding down a gravel road in Oregon and the car muffler came loose. ‘You were going too fast,’ he said.
Back in Yakima a doctor saw to it that my dad went to a psychiatrist. My mother and dad had to go on relief, as it was called, and the County paid for the psychiatrist. The psychiatrist asked my dad, ‘Who is the President?’ He’d had a question put to him that he could answer. ‘Ike,’ my dad said. Nevertheless, they put him on the fifth floor of Valley Memorial Hospital and began giving him electric shock treatments. I was married by then and about to start my own family. My dad was still locked up when my wife went into this same hospital, just one floor down, to have our first baby.
After she had delivered, I went upstairs to give my dad the news. They let me in through a steel door and showed me where I could find him. He was sitting on a couch with a blanket over his lap. Hey, I thought. What in hell is happening to my dad? I sat down next to him and told him he was a grandfather. He waited a minute and said, ‘I feel like a grandfather.’ That’s all he said. He didn’t smile or move. He was in a big room with a lot of other people. Then I hugged him, and he began to cry.
Somehow he got out of there. But now came the years when he couldn’t work and just sat around the house trying to figure what next and what he’d done wrong in his life that he’d wound up like this. My mother went from job to crummy job. Much later she referred to that time he was in the hospital, and those years just afterwards, as ‘when Raymond was sick.’ The word ‘sick’ was never the same for me again.
In 1964, through the help of a friend, he was lucky enough to be hired at a mill in Klamath, California. He moved down there by himself to see if he could hack it. He lived not far from the mill in a one-room cabin, not much different from the place he and my mother had started living in when they went west. He scrawled letters to my mother, and if I called, she’d read them aloud to me over the phone. In the letters, he said it was touch and go. Every day he went to work he felt like it was the most important day of his life. But every day, he told her, made the next day that much easier. He said for her to tell me he said hello. If he couldn’t sleep at night, he said, he thought about me and the good times we used to have. Finally after a couple of months, he regained some of his confidence. He could do the work and didn’t think he had to worry that he’d let anybody down ever again. When he was sure, he sent for my mother.
He’d been off work for six years and had lost everything in that time: home, car, furniture and appliances, including the big freezer that had been my mother’s pride and joy. He’d lost his good name, too – Raymond Carver was someone who couldn’t pay his bills – and his self-respect was gone. He’d even lost his virility. My mother told my wife, ‘All during that time Raymond was sick we slept together in the same bed, but we didn’t have relations. He wanted to a few times, but nothing happened. I didn’t miss it, but I think he wanted to, you know.’
During those years I was trying to raise my own family and earn a living. But, with one thing and another, we found ourselves having to move a lot. I couldn’t keep track of what was going on in my dad’s life. But I did have a chance one Christmas to tell him I wanted to be a writer. I might as well have told him I wanted to become a plastic surgeon. ‘What are you going to write about?’ he wanted to know. Then, as if to help me out, he said, ‘Write about stuff you know about. Write about some of those fishing trips we took.’ I said I would, but I knew I wouldn’t. ‘Send me what you write,’ he said. I said I’d do that, but then I didn’t. I wasn’t writing anything about fishing, and I didn’t think he’d particularly care about, or even necessarily understand, what I was writing in those days. Besides, he wasn’t a reader. Not the sort, anyway, I imagined I was writing for.
Then he died. I was a long way off, in Iowa City, with things still to say to him. I didn’t have the chance to tell him goodbye, or that I thought he was doing great at his new job. That I was proud of him for making a comeback.
My mother said he came in from work that night and ate a big supper. Then he sat at the table by himself and finished what was left of a bottle of whisky, a bottle she found hidden in the bottom of the garbage under some coffee grounds a day or so later. Then he got up and went to bed, where my mother joined him a little later. But in the night she had to get up and make a bed for herself on the couch. ‘He was snoring so loud I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. The next morning when she looked in on him, he was on his back with his mouth open, his cheeks caved in. Grey-looking, she said. She knew he was dead – she didn’t need a doctor to tell her that. But she called one, anyway, and then she called my wife.
Among the pictures my mother kept of my dad and herself during those early days in Washington was a photograph of him standing in front of a car, holding a beer and a stringer of fish. In the photograph he is wearing his hat back on his forehead and has this awkward grin on his face. I asked her for it and she gave it to me, along with some others. I put it up on my wall, and each time we moved, I took the picture along and put it up on another wall. I looked at it carefully from time to time, trying to figure out some things about my dad, and maybe myself in the process. But I couldn’t. My dad just kept moving farther and farther away from me and back into time. Finally, in the course of another move, I lost the photograph. It was then I tried to recall it, and at the same time make an attempt to say something about my dad, and how I thought that in some important ways we might be alike. I wrote the poem when I was living in an apartment house in an urban area south of San Francisco and at a time when I found myself, like dad, having trouble with alcohol. The poem was a way of trying to connect up with him.
PHOTOGRAPH OF MY FATHER IN HIS TWENTY-SECOND YEAR
October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father’s embarrassed young man’s face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsberg beer.
In jeans and flannel shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose brave and hearty for his posterity,
wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.
But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can’t hold my liquor either
and don’t even know the places to fish.
The poem is true in its particulars, except that my dad died in June and not October, as the first word of the poem says. I wanted a word with more than one syllable to it to make it linger a little. But more than that, I wanted a month appropriate to what I felt at the time I wrote the poem – a month of short days and failing light, smoke in the air, things perishing. June was summer nights and days, graduations, my wedding anniversary, the birthday of one of my children. June wasn’t a month your father died in.
After the service at the funeral home, after we had moved outside, a woman I didn’t know came over to me and said, ‘He’s happier where he is now.’ I stared at this woman until she moved away. I still remember the little knob of a hat she was wearing. Then one of my dad’s cousins – I didn’t know the man’s name – reached out and took my hand. ‘We all miss him,’ he said, and I knew he wasn’t saying it to be polite.
I began to weep for the first time since receiving the news. I hadn’t been able to before. I hadn’t had the time, for one thing. Now, suddenly, I couldn’t stop. I held my wife and wept while she said and did what she could to comfort me there in the middle of that summer afternoon.
I listened to people say consoling things to my mother, and I was glad that my dad’s family had turned up, had come to where he was. I thought I’d remember everything that was said and done that day and maybe find a way to tell it sometime. But I didn’t. I forgot it all, or nearly. What I do remember is that I heard our name used a lot that afternoon, my dad’s name and mine. But I knew they were talking about my dad. Raymond, these people kept saying in their beautiful voices out of my childhood. Raymond.